Make Your Choice
by Skalidra
Summary: Keith is the current 'Prince' of the Galra empire; a title passed down to each new chosen student of Emperor Zarkon's, which are usually geniuses or prodigies. Keith's problem is that he's a halfblood, too small by Galra standards, even though his skill more than makes up for it. So, when he sees a mouthy, freshly taken slave shout at the Emperor, he decides it's an opportunity.


Sheith week, day 6! The prompt was, 'Galra!Keith/Dark!Shiro'. (I feel at this point that I should point that these prompts are meant to be read as 'and/or', and in this case I used just the Galra!Keith bit.) This is more gen than anything else, by the way. I mean, you can totally read it as Sheith, and the direction my head ran off with it in debating its future was definitely Sheith, but there's no real hint of it here. Enjoy!

 **Warnings** for: Slavery, purposeful scarring, and mentions of possible prostitution.

* * *

The swipe of claws across his arm stings, _burns_ as the druid magic sizzles into it, and he hisses his pain but spins around anyway, following the blur of shadow. The illusions that surround him are laughing but faint, see-through as long as he concentrates, as long as he—

He strikes, drawing power from his chest and out into his arm to throw black lightning at the druid's real form. It burns inside him, claws at his veins as it passes because he hasn't given himself fully to it like the rest of them, but he bares his teeth and takes the pain in exchange for the _power_. The druid backpedals, shield coming up to block his lightning. He charges the moment the last spark leaves his fingertips, curling his hands to ready his claws and diving in on the end of the lightning. His metal-tipped claws grate over the shield; tearing strips in it but there's no way he gets through, not without a fight. So instead he bends one knee and throws the other leg out, skimming beneath the shield.

The druid yelps as he sweeps one leg, staggering. The shield flickers and he shoves forward and through it, violet light breaking off around him as he reaches forward and grabs the druid by one shoulder. No teleporting if he's in contact. He wraps himself around the druid, slips to the side of a blast of lightning that heats his side as it barely misses him, and drives a _hard_ knee into the back of one of the druid's thighs. That gets his opponent to one knee, and far down enough that he can wrap his other arm around the throat and dig his claws into the vulnerable arch of a throat. He hisses, digs them in a little harder, and—

"Enough."

The call is relatively quiet, but more than enough to get him to lift his head and release his victim. Zarkon looks down at him, over the kneeling form of the druid, and one corner of that mouth lifts into a smirk. Pride blooms sharp in his chest, and he steps back from the druid and stands tall, secure in the knowledge that a smile, however small, means that he's done excellently. He knows he has. It isn't an easy thing to beat one of the master druids; they have far too many tricks up their sleeves.

The lightning, illusions, teleportation… The best of them — like his secondary teacher, Haggar — can even directly hold those of lesser will in place, and play some extreme mind games. He's limited to lightning for the moment, but his plan was never to be a druid. Research and experimentation aren't his passions; he's going to be the youngest, _best_ prince Emperor Zarkon has ever trained, and no one is going to stand in his way.

"You were injured," Zarkon points out, and he glances down to the scratches in his arm. Glowing faint with purple light; druid poison.

"A mere scratch," he dismisses, raising a hand and passing it over the scratches to leech the light from them, "but a mistake. I'll do better next time, Father." The light comes free reluctantly, and he shakes it from his hand and to the ground, where it sizzles but dissipates.

"Good." An alert pings, and Zarkon looks to the side, reading whatever message has come through on the console beside him. "A communication from one of the exploratory ships," Zarkon comments, gaze flicking to him. "Come and watch, little prince."

The only reason he doesn't bristle at the 'little' comment is because it's the Emperor. He's small, but his size doesn't matter to Zarkon, only his talent and his loyalty. He moves forward, circling to stand close enough to Zarkon to see the screen that will pop up, but far enough away that he won't be in the frame himself. He gets a small nod, and pride rises again.

Zarkon isn't his actual father, of course. There are no true sons or daughters of the Emperor. 'Prince' is a title bestowed on the best and brightest of students, the ones taken in to be trained by Zarkon himself, perhaps one in a decade if not longer. Geniuses, prodigies; he's that 'one' for right now. He's not even full-blood Galra, unfortunately. His father is a Lieutenant of good enough reputation, but his mother is of a weaker race, far on the outskirts of the Galra territory. A not yet conquered world, and he's not entirely sure how he was ever born, but it doesn't matter. His Galra blood mostly overwhelmed the other half of him, so he can pass as full Galra apart from his size.

He's _small_. Too small. Just big enough to be mistaken as a runt instead of a half-blood, which is the only blessing. He's still hoping he gets a little bigger, but, well, that might be in vain. It doesn't matter; _no one_ will get the better of him just because of that.

He clasps his hands behind his back, watching as Zarkon pulls up the commander's communication. It's a report of prisoners taken; three of them kneeling in the background in what looks like rather primitive space gear, one sans helmet. He pays less attention to the commander and more to them, so he sees it first when the one without the helmet stirs in the grip of the drone, looking up with glazed eyes. He watches, rather interested, as the prisoner looks around, gathers his energy, then shouts at the screen. Not anger but pleading, protesting that they're peaceful, that they're unarmed.

At least until he's knocked unconscious again.

He steps closer when the feed cuts out, and says, "Father, if you don't have any specific plans for the mouthy one; I want him."

Zarkon turns to him, asking, "What do you see that you want, my little prince?"

He lets his mouth curl, showing the points of his fangs. "Potential."

* * *

They treat him differently than Matt and Sam. He doesn't know why, and none of the guards — the ones that have actual faces anyway — will do more than sneer at him when he asks. That's about all the answer he gets when he asks _anything_ , actually, but even in that things are different. He gets sneers; they get backhands or threats.

He's in a different cell — opposite the one Matt and Sam are in — and alone, where his two companions are roomed with a collection of… of _aliens_. They're all in the same prison uniform, but he's got the addition of nearly skintight, bright, metal bands around his wrists, with cracks through them and some kind of locking mechanism he doesn't understand. They're not cuffs, not really. They don't seem to have any actual purpose, but given the locks he's clearly not meant to remove them. They were there when he woke up.

He gets the same portions of food that Sam and Matt do, but his look like actual meals — in a weird, _definitely_ not human way — as opposed to the bowls of colored goop. He's taken from his cell more often too, for too-thorough examinations and too-brief showers. He gets fairly used to showering in front of the guards and their crooked, fanged, smirks. They make him _really_ uncomfortable, but none of them ever do anything more than steer him from one place to another. He's allowed to dress, and clean, and everything else, on his own. By the information they trade, the same is not true for Matt and Sam. They seem to get the high-tech version of a bucket of water and a bar of soap, and less regularly.

It's like he's being… kept, for something. It's like someone wants him in good condition. Or, on a different but no less intimidating option, that he's some sort of sacrifice, or an example. He did yell at the person on the screen; Emperor Zarkon. That might have been a really _big_ mistake.

There's nothing for him to make marks on in the cell, but it feels like a long time before there's any variation in the 'routine' of it. That variation comes in the form of two guards — ones with faces — coming to his cell, both of them with sneers and sharp commands to come with them. It doesn't feel like a regular visit, and that's really sharply confirmed when one of them jerks his arms behind his back and snaps him into a pair of _real_ cuffs. That hasn't happened since they were first captured.

The hand in his hair, all but dragging him down the corridor, is another confirmation. He holds his tongue, knowing he's not going to get answers even if he asks, and just tries to remember the path they're taking. It's to parts of the ship he's never been too. He gets lost before too long, but at least he knows a _little_ bit of the path, even if he could probably never retrace it. All the corridors look the same, and he can't read the signs on the walls.

Then things get _instantly_ more frightening, because a door opens with a hiss of air, a second beyond it, and then suddenly the corridors are different, and there are open stretches of windows, and there's space beyond them. Space, and the shapes of other, moving ships, and it occurs to him in a sharp rush that he's on a _space station_.

The hand in his hair lets go, but the shock is enough to keep him quiet, and keep him from fighting the hands grasping his upper arms and pulling him along. Where would he go anyway? He's in some foreign space station, far enough away from home that none of their satellites has ever taken pictures far enough away to see any of this, and surrounded by technology and weaponry he doesn't understand. Running would be a monumentally _terrible_ idea, even if he could get out of the cuffs and away from his guards. Would he even be able to pilot a ship or shuttle from this race?

There are other people in the corridors; the same purple skin, yellow eyes, most in dark armor with at least one obvious piece of weaponry. They watch him as he's pulled past, with either narrowed eyes and hostility or clear interest. What exactly that interest is he doesn't think he wants to know, it's the same kind of uncomfortable skin-crawling feel he got from the guards that supervised his showers.

Up two separate elevators, and then suddenly the corridors are wider, and practically deserted. The guards walk faster, and he has to concentrate on keeping pace with their longer legs, which doesn't leave much extra concentration to spend on trying to figure out where they're going. Luckily, it's only a couple minutes before they're drawing to a stop in front of a double door, and one guard is stepping forward, pressing an armored hand to a panel beside the door. There's a chime, but the doors don't open.

At least, not for another couple moments, before the panel flashes green and a second chime rings out.

The guards pull him forwards as the doors slide open, and his gaze darts around to try and take in the new room. Grey color scheme, less purple than most of the ship, sparse furniture, no windows. It's sort of grim, and definitely militaristic. But that seems to be right in line with every other room he's seen so far, so…

He's pushed to his knees, and then the guards themselves each go to a knee and he gets _shoved_ down with them, until he's inches off the floor and only held that high by their grips on his arms. His shoulders ache at the awkward angle, but he twists his head up at the click of footsteps to try and see what's coming. He manages to crane his head up far enough to see the approaching person and it's… not what he expected.

Well, it's one of them, purple-skinned and yellow-eyed and everything, but _small_. Young looking, in slim, mostly unadorned armor that matches more what the commander of the ship he was on was wearing than any of the guards. He — it's definitely a 'he,' at least if their genders are similar — has black hair, falling to his shoulders, and skin that looks lightly furred, which matches the tufted ears sticking up from his head, both currently pointing in his direction. He definitely doesn't look like one of the strong, vicious, guards he's been in pretty regular contact with.

"Remove the cuffs," comes the command. Calm but definitely ringing with steel, as if the order needs to be enforced. "The adornments too."

He's dropped the last couple inches and yelps as he hits the floor, face smacking into it. Not with much force, thankfully, but it's startling. There's the click of metal, the twist of one of his wrists, and then the cuffs come loose. His shoulders roll, and he tries to draw his arms down but they're wrenched back up hard enough to make him wince. It takes him a few moments to realize the hands he can feel working at his wrists are unlocking the silver cuffs that have been stuck on him since he was captured. It feels _strange_ when they come off, the absence of the faint pressure leaving his wrists really free for the first time in a long time.

Those footsteps come closer, walking up to just about right in front of him. The guards let him go and shift back just a moment before the one above him says, "You can go. Leave him."

A hesitation, and he twists his head to look at the guards as they get to their feet. One is sneering, but before he can even really register that there's a sharp _hiss_ from in front of him. His head jerks back around, and the smaller Galra has teeth and fangs bared, hands curled and this close he can see there are _metal_ tips at the ends of those claws. His ears are pinned flat back, eyes narrowed, looking remarkably like a very angry cat which is really not a very good comparison to be making.

"You can _go_ ," he repeats, in a much sharper tone.

There's another fraction of pause, before the two guards step away and then head for the door. The ears ease forwards again, lips lowering to hide all but a faint hint of fangs, hands relaxing from the sharp, deadly curl. He stares, breathing shallowly and trying not to draw attention until he hears the door close. Then the smaller Galra looks down at him, head tilting to one side, yellow eyes studying him. He swallows, curls his fingers against the ground as he tries to subtly get his knees underneath him. That yellow gaze flicks upwards, spotting his movement, but the only reaction is a scoff.

"Get off the floor," is the order, snapped down at him. "You are the slave of a prince; not some guard's plaything."

His breath catches — a _prince?_ — but he pushes up anyway, rising to his knees and then, after a second of hesitation, all the way to his feet. He's taller by at least half a head, which feels utterly weird to him. Every Galra so far, guard or otherwise, has been at least a head taller than him if not even bigger. The hair is new too, though almost all his experience has been guards with helmets so that's not really a good selection to get an accurate estimate from.

Those yellow eyes narrow, and then he's commanded, "Stay."

There's a little thrill of both fear and anger in his gut — he's not a _dog_ either — but he does hold himself still as the Galra circles him. Slowly, gaze a near physical weight on his back for all the seconds that he can't see him. He shivers, closing his eyes for a moment and trying to breathe evenly and not betray any of his fear. The circle completes, and the Galra's eyes meet his, holding his gaze but still studying, still judging.

There's only silence, and he starts to fidget. Finally opens his mouth and says, "You're small for a Galra, aren't you?"

He barely sees it coming. A lightning fast kick knocks one leg out from under him, hands grab his shoulders and wrench him down into the opposite knee, and then he's grabbed by the front of his slave uniform and shoved back and _down_. He hits the ground _hard_ , flat on his back, breath gone from his lungs and his throat clenching as he gags, struggling not to throw up. He can't _breathe_ , he can't— His chest aches, and his stomach turns, and he can only lie there, gasping for air that won't come.

There's a deliberate footstep, just under his arm, and then a second one on the other side, leaving the Galra prince standing over his chest. He focuses enough to see the sharp smirk aimed down at him, before, "Yes, I am."

He chokes a little bit, pushing backwards on his arms (at least those are behaving) until the Galra drops to a kneel on top of him, knees and the armor over them digging painfully into his upper arms. He grimaces, starts to struggle, and then metal-tipped claws find the bottom of his chin, forcing his head up and back with the tips, arching and baring his throat. He stills, far from blind to the threat that those claws represent. It's been flat out said; he's a slave, which consequently means that he's just about worthless and disposable according to the Galra, even if some prince was interested enough in him to order him brought here.

The claws ease, allowing him to lower his head far enough to see the cool, almost disinterested gaze of the Galra kneeling on and over him. The tips of two rest on his Adam's apple instead, as the prince speaks.

"You are a fresh slave, so let me explain our world to you, human. As a slave, there are only three paths available to you. To fight, to labor, or to entertain." The claws trace up his throat, to his jaw, and he stays perfectly still beneath them. "Those sent to the work camps are meant to break down; the empire has no shortage of slaves, and those sent to the work camps are… inferior. Injured, old, or displeasing to the eye. They will work until their bodies fail them, and then be replaced."

He blood runs cold, and the Galra smirks.

"You are in no danger of that, human." The smirk stays as the fingers on his jaw slide downwards again, tapping his Adam's apple sharply enough to make him flinch, and then shiver. "That leaves you with two other paths. You can choose to entertain. You are pleasing enough, and it seems that your body is similar enough to Galra biology that the couplings would be possible."

He freezes up, mind taking that wording and then trying to _understand_ it. "Wait, you mean… You _can't_ —"

"You would learn to submit," the prince interrupts, "to take pleasure in it. You could be someone's valued pet, dressed to be admired and cared for well. For a good many years anyway, until your looks wane, or you fail to keep your new master satisfied. After that, the brothels will take you. You may even earn enough at one of them to buy your freedom before you grow too old for anyone to care. Humans are a nearly unheard of species out here, after all. Diversity is always interesting."

"No," he protests, only the claws at his throat keeping him from really struggling. " _No_. I'm not—"

The other hand clasps over his mouth, wicked fast, silencing him. "Your last option, slave, is to fight. The arena is harsh — most die in their first fight — but if you survive it you may be granted a tolerable existence. You will still be sold to those that wish to take a gladiator, and you will fight for your life every time you step in the ring, to kill or be killed, but it is a death that the Galra consider honorable. Of the choices, that is the only one that offers you any chance to be more than simply another slave."

The hand releases his mouth, and he stares up. The Galra seems content to wait for him to figure out something to say, and finally, he does. "If those are my only options," he starts, slowly, "why am I here? Do you…? Do you want me to— to _entertain?_ "

"Or perhaps I want you to fight." The claws on his throat slide up, and he inhales sharply as the tips of them trace over his bottom lip, then hook inside, metal scraping over his teeth. "What is your choice, slave? Which path do you choose?"

He shivers, the metal an acrid taste on his tongue. He can't… He can't _stand_ the thought of — his breath catches — _entertaining_. He can't… He _won't_.

He _snaps_ his teeth together, but the prince's fingers yank out of the way before he can bite them, and before he can do more than tense in preparation to struggle his head is being _slammed_ against the floor beneath it. More than hard enough to stun. He blinks, dazed, as a hand grips the bottom half of his face, and then _pain_ slices across his nose. He shouts, jerking, eyes going wide as _fire_ splits open his face from cheek to cheek, across the bridge of his nose. It hurts, it _burns_ , and he gives a choked sound and tries to jerk his face away from the hand still holding him.

"To fight it is," the Galra says, just loud enough to pierce his dulled, and _inflamed_ senses. "You're marked, slave. Everyone will know that you are not for use, nor being used by me. Good choice."

The way the Galra's weight shoves down into his arms as he gets up _hurts_ , but it's barely an ache compared to the agony of his face. He lifts himself up on one arm the moment he can, gasping, and he can _feel_ blood dripping down his face, hear it hitting the ground beneath him once it's wound its way down off his jaw. He shakily holds his other hand to it, not daring to touch but gingerly clasping his hand across nearby parts that don't hurt as badly.

There's a flash of movement and he _jerks_ , panic pulling him away from the dark purple before there's a clear ripping sound, and part of the overshirt of his prison uniform is torn away. And then thrown nearly into his face.

"I will send for a medic soon enough," the Galra says, carelessly. "Until then, use that to stem the bleeding." Cautiously, he does. It _hurts_ , but he grits his teeth and does it. "What's your name, slave?"

He's not up for struggling right now. Who knows what else the Galra will do to him if he does? "Takashi Shirogane," he answers, through his gritted teeth. "Most— Most people call me Shiro."

The Galra gives a small nod. "I am Prince Keith; Emperor Zarkon's chosen student."

 _Keith?_

"That's—"

"A strange name," _Keith_ says shortly, as though he's heard it a thousand times. "I know. Supposedly it was from my mother's culture. However that does not matter to _you_ , because _you_ will address me as 'my Prince,' 'Sir,' or 'Master.' Whichever you can stand saying. Call me by my given name and you will be punished."

Sir. He can do that. That's… That's not all that different than the Garrison. He can manage that.

"Yes, Sir," he mumbles, wincing at the way the words pull the muscles of his cheeks, how that tugs at his fresh wound. "The… You said the arena. I chose to— to fight. I—"

Suddenly Keith is crouching down beside him, and he startles but then clawed fingertips comb back through his hair and it… it doesn't hurt. "You won't go to the arena, Shiro," Keith murmurs, hand cupping the back of his skull. "You were right, there is another path. Me. I'm going to teach you how to fight, and you will stand beside me as mine, for all to see."

"Why?" he manages to ask.

Keith watches him for a moment, and then says, "Because I cannot watch my own back all the time. My position is coveted, and part of proving I deserve it is to survive it. If you are loyal to me, I will make sure that you have anything you desire that is in my power to give, and no one else will ever dare to lay a hand on you."

He hesitates, trembles a little bit. "Freedom?"

Keith's mouth curls into a small smirk. "Someday, when my position is secure, yes. If you still desire freedom, I will give it to you. You have my word."

A harder shiver wracks him. "Must be desperate," he guesses.

A wider smirk, and then a laugh. "Hardly. I can take them, but I like to have backup plans when I can. You've got potential." The hand slides out of his hair, and Keith gets to his feet, yellow eyes unnerving but maybe… maybe not as frightening as they were a few minutes ago. "I'll call the medic to treat you."


End file.
